


Against the Odds

by Owl_song



Category: Sherlock(TV) - Fandom
Genre: Action, Angst, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, learning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_song/pseuds/Owl_song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donovan and Sherlock are kidnapped by Moriarty. She finds out he isn't quite the freak she's always accused him of being, and he makes a few discoveries too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Case

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during 2.3 somewhere after the hat photograph incident, but before the fall, obviously.
> 
> Sorry the chapters will be so short, i'm on my phone and it only lets me type around 200-250 words at a time, depending on what mood its in, apparently.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own sherlock

"BoredboredboredboredBORED" Sherlock announced - for the 32nd time that morning - from where he lay sprawled across the sofa, glaring at John with cold clue eyes.  
John sighed, and glanced nervously at the yellow smiley face spray painted on the wall, complete with bullet holes. They hadn't had a case since the beginning of the week, and Sherlock was beginning to get reckless. And annoying. The only reason John was still there was because the need to escape from his overbearing presence was outweighed by the fear of what he might return to if he took his watchful eye of sherlock for just 10 minutes.  
Probably a whole community of bright smiling faces, and a bullet riddled wall.  
"Here." He said, passing over the day's newspaper, which had been lying on floor by his feet. "Do the crosswords."

Sherlock gave him an imperious look.

"I've already done those."

Strange, he could have sworn he hadn't seen Sherlock move from his current position since at least yesterday morning.


	2. A Case (continued)

John started to turn through the pages, but stopped when he heard Sherlock snort.

"Theres no point looking, I didn't fill in the answers."

John's eyes narrowed. "And why was that?"

"Writing takes time, John." He decided to ignore the over empathised roll of the eyes. "Much quicker just to create a visual representation in your mind. It's what I usually do."

"You usually do the crossword?"

That just earned him a despairing look from his flatmate. John sat up straighter in his arm chair. "Fine. What was yesterday's hidden celebrity name?"

"I don't have to prove it for you, John." Sherlock sighed.

"But you're going to, anyway."

A pause.

And then another melodramatic sigh. "Hugh Jackman."

"Yes," said John, a little bit suprised, and half trying to work out if there was any way Sherlock could have deduced that. "Though I don't see why yo-"

He cut off suddenly at the sound of a beep.

The beep of a message alert.

From Sherlock's phone.

"Its a case!" the consulting detective announced with a grin.


	3. Not a Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, i'll get to the main plot in a bit, but you know there's got to be a bit of friendly banter before the action starts. This is John and Sherlock, for goodness sake.

They arrived at the crime scene in record time. The moment the cab had pulled away Sherlock had instructed the driver to go at a practically suicidal speed, threatening a slow and painful death, and the cabbie had complied - probably desperate to get the nutter out of his car.

They were greeted by Lestrade, who looked grateful, and Donovan. As usual her face had gone sour the moment their cab arrived.

"What are we looking at?" Sherlock asked, pushing pleasantries aside. Donovan scowled at the eagerness in his voice, but if Lestrade heard the slightly improper enthusiasm behind the words he didn't acknowledge it.

"A murder. Only, it's not a murder, I don't think. The facts just don't add up..." He frowned. "We were hoping you could help make things clearer."

He lead them down the drive an through the door way of an small, brick structure that screamed post-war housing crisis.

The light in the hall way was dim but in the main living area, which Lestrade had gestured them into when the reached the... (cont)


	4. Not a Case (continued)

... second door on the right, was filled with bright white light.

Sherlock spared at the body on the floor in silence for 1 minute. 2 minutes. 3 minutes.

"The light wasn't us, somebody fitted this room with expensive, high energy light bulbs." Lestrade explained to John. "It threw us. And there are other things, little things..."

Sherlock could hear the inspector talking, and tried to block his words out. To block all sounds out, infact. Yes, the little things, the groves in the carpet where the victim had been obviously dragged, but the lack of any scuff on the back of the heels of his well polished broughes...

5 minutes. 6 minutes.

"Is this what I think it is? Have we finally come across a case that even the infallible freak can't crack?" Donovan asked with a sneer.

Sherlock twitched, but otherwise did not react to her words or her presence.

"Maybe he needs the hat..." she added in a conspirational whisper.

"Not... a case..." Sherlock murmured. "Not a - not a case - A TPAP!" He yelled, suddenly.


	5. A Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the "its a trap!" ending on that last chapter, I couldn't think of any other way to do it :L thank you for reading this!

"What?" Donovan asked in disbelief. "Just because you can't solve a case, it doesn't mean it's n-"

"Lestrade, get your people out of here." Sherlock cut accross as though she hadn't even spoken, his voice smooth and calm, but with a tone as firm as iron.

The inspector shared an alarmed look with John, who quickly intervened.

"Sherlock, what is it...?"

"Out, now!" An edge of panic had crept into his voice. "Its Moriarty. Not a case, a trap... to catch..."

"You?"

Sherlock lifted his hands up to his head, fingers digging into his temples, as he tried to work out the logic. "Yes, but why here, why now? Surely I am not that hard to catch..."

Suddenly the lights went out, the whole roomed plunged into eerie darkness. Several gasps rang out, but it was impossible to tell whose.

"Yes, Shirly!" A high pitched voice announced suddenly, laughing delightedly. The strong Irish lilt was unmistakable.

There was the sound of movement as several people tried to locate Moriarty in the black out, but that just.. (cont)


	6. A trap (continued)

...made him laugh harder.  
"Yes Sherlock, I could have just taken you from your flat... Or sent you a text even, because you would have come, wouldn't you?" Another throaty chuckle. "But no." His slowly turned hard and dangerous "This is so much more fun."

There was a long, silent pause, as though everybody was holding their breath for fear that simply breathing would attract attention.

And then: "I'll give you 10 seconds."

The sudden silence of the room marked the steady countdown.

Chaos, a mad flurry of activity, a dozen investigators and forensic specialists fighting their way towards the door. Sherlock grasped the back of Johns coat and hurled him into the crowd at the door way. He heard him calling out his name as the mass of bodies surged, pushing the pair apart. Sherlock stood still. Waiting.

Click... Click.

A pause. Then the feeling of many pairs of rough, strong hands. One around his mouth, no oxygen.

As the world faded, he swore he heard a scream.


	7. A Room

The first thing Sherlock did when he woke up was let out a choice selection of swear words, in a wide variety of languages. How had he not realised? There must have been around 5, 6 of Moriarty's men there in the room, carefully disguised as part of the team, but surely he should have deduced that?

"Oh I do LOVE a man who talks dirty..." The consulting criminal drawled, smiley widely at Sherlock who had quickly pulled him self up into a sitting position, despite the pounding in his head, the moment he heard the high irish voice.

"What do you want now?" He sighed, as though bored, and quickly flicking his eyes around the room - wooden floor, no furniture, one door - before settling them on Moriarty's face. His features were smooth, wiped clean of emotion. Sherlock schooled his expression into an exact mirror image.

The irishman lent in close. "A bit of fun. Something to do. Because i'm so BORED." The last word was spat, forcefully, from his tongue as he jumped up and then left the room. He locked the door.


	8. A Room (continued)

Sally Donovan, unlike Sherlock, woke up in the dark. She was strapped to a stiff, wooden chair, her hands attached behind her back by what felt like metal hand cuffs to the hard wood. For a moment, she wondered what on earth was going on, but then the events of the evening came flooding back.

Hostage training kicked in and she tried to feel out her surroundings. But in the pitch dark - what was it with evil guys and the dark? - the only things she could conclude was that there was a dark room, with a chair, and she was sitting in it.

Sally sighed. Her back ached, she had a crick in her neck, and her head pounded. A quick twist of her wrists proved there was no hope in trying to pull them free. The cuffs were tight and locked fast.

So much for a quick escape, she thought miserably.

The brief rattling of metal must have alerted someone to her awakening, because at that moment a the sound of a door creaking open somewhere behind her echoed round the room (it must be a fairly large room, Sally realised).


	9. A Room (continued)

"Awake, sweet heart?" The a voice asked, the same high pitched voice that had spoken to Sherlock at the crime scene.

Sally ground her teeth together, determined not to speak. They must want information. But she had been trained for this, and she wasn't going to give them any, any at all.

"I said ARE. YOU. AWAKE." The voice was different now, harsh and cold and threatening, the irish lilt even more pronounced.

Sally tried very hard to keep her voice strong, but it shook, so she kept her answer short. "Yes."

"Very good." She could almost hear the smile in his voice. "You'll soon learn to answer me, sweetie..." The door creaked closed again and the feeble light that had touched the room momentarily was immediately extinguished. It didn't matter, it hadn't been strong enough to see anything by anyway, Sally told herself as she shivered. She hated to admit it, but she was frightened. Terrified, infact. What were they going to do to her?


	10. A Present

Sherlock sat cross legged on the floor, waiting. He was glad they hadn't tied him up - but then Moriarty knew him, knew he wouldn't try to escape. Just like he knew Moriarty would be back, and untill he was back there would be nothing to do but wait.

Its a good thing that Sherlock was practised at waiting. Tuning out his body, living in his mind, thinking, writing, composing, anything to pass the time.

And so he was suprised when barely half an hour after he had left, Moriarty returned. He had expected it to be a day or two, at least.

"Hello beautiful." He smiled, eerily peaceful. "I have a present for you. TWO, infact." Then the smile on his lips faded. "I'd like you to put this on."

Sherlock recognised his 'danger' voice and wordlessly complied, taking the hat from his hands. He looked at it, then gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Irony."

"Yes." The smile was back, wider and creepier than before. "Now put it on, and come with me."

Sherlock hesitated.

"Trust me, you'll want to."


	11. A Present (continued)

Not long after the door had closed, a few minutes perhaps, another one opened, just a little. A crack of light and a shadowy hand gripping the edge.

"Ready to see your present..?" The irishman whispered to his companion, and Sally saw the muscles in long, bony fingers contract, their hold on the door tightening.

"Open the door. But close it behind you." Came a whisper, and then quickly recededing footsteps.

A still, weighted silence, and then the door was thrown open. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, and his eyes to adjust to the dark.

Though the brightness was blinding, a silhouette stood out in the doorway in stark contrast. A tall, skinny, silhouette, wearing what was easily definable as deerstalker hat. He swore. So did she. Suddenly she wasn't terrified, she was furious.

"I told them! I told them you were a pyschopath, a freak of nature!" She thundered. "But did they listen? Of course not! And now look who has to pay for it! Its typical, just typ-"

He took a step towards her.


	12. THIS IS NOT A CHAPTER, ITS AN IMPORTANT NOTE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just a quick note to any one who's been reading this -
> 
> I won't be able to get on the internet on my phone for a while, which means that updates will be infrequent and further apart (I loathe using my computer, it takes an age to load) but it means they will be much much longer. Just so you know I haven't abandoned this
> 
> 16.03.13 - Okay i've written quite a few pages on paper, i'll try and get it typed up soon. Sorry for the delay but you know how it is around exam time, i've just got so much work :(

..............


	13. A Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I had to buy another days worth of mobile internet so that I could use google translate for my french homework (Sshhh, that definitely isn't cheating) so here I am again. I'll try and get a few bits posted. One day i'll go throw and edit all this, because i've realised that idea's that seem like good idea's at three o'clock in the morning (I live in the UK) usually ARN'T good ideas. Like fingers clicking in unison, for example. Sense of mystery and immediate danger? No. Primary school drama production? Yes. Sorry about that.

She stopped her rant midway and gave him a look that was obviously intended to be dangerous, but as usual the effort was wasted on Sherlock.

"I wasn't planning on it." He informed her with a roll of the eyes, and then began to make his way around the room, feeling out the walls, the floor, trying to deduct as much as possible using every sense but his eyes, seeing as the room had gone pitch black again the moment he shut the door. Sally was sure she heard him mutter "And I thought Mycroft gave bad presents..." While leaning down, seemingly with his ear against the floor from the dim shape of his outline her straining eyes could make out.

"What were you planning on doing, then?" She demanded, a slight tremble in her voice but otherwise as annoyingly obnoxious as always, Sherlock thought in disgust.

"I was planning on going with him, playing the game, and winning - but obviously thats not going to happen now." He said with a scowl that even in the dark could be heared clearly in his tone.


	14. Chapter 14

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Things have become a little more complicated, don't you think?" He gave a short, humourless chuckle. "No ofcourse not. You're Sally Donavon. Sally Donavon who throws herself into the chase, always thinks she knows best, and never shuts up when i'm trying to think! Ofcourse you don't think, or we wouldn't be here in the first place."

If she hadn't of been strapped to a chair, Sally would have stood up at that. "What the hell, freak? You're the one who gets their little cronies to kidnap me! If I-"

Sherlock let out a long, suffering sigh, stopping the trickle of words from becoming a full blown stream. "I presumed you would have realised by now but obviously not. I'm not with Moriarty." He concerntrates on her, properly, for the first time since walking into the room. Pupils dialated, pulse quickened, fear. Vein throbbing by left temple. Stress.

"I don't believe you."

The detective hissed in fustration, and glared. "Then we have a problem."


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock sat at the furthest side of the room, ramrod straight, unmoving, while Sally tapped her foot iritably - the only part of her she could tap iritably, tied up as she was. She wished Sherlock would just get to the point. Forget feining innocence, just tell her what he wanted. he hadn't spoken or moved from that spot for a good half an hour now - maybe longer, it was so hard to keep track of time - and it was making her nervous. Eventually the silence became too much.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He sighed, but didn't reply. It was infuriating. Here she was, handcuffed, extremelly uncomfortable, while he lounged about, perfectly free. For all he insisted he was on her side, had he tried to release her? No. Had he tried to console her? No. he was being an arrogant prat, as usual. And as he didn't seem to feel like revealing his purpose just yet, it seemed it was down to her to force the conversation.

"Are you meditating?" She asked, with a smirk. That got a reaction.

Sherlock turned around, and it was hard to see in the dark but she guessed that he was glaring.

"No." He replied, simply. "I was composing."

Sally gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "Right."

That earned her his very best glare, although it was unlikely she would be able to see it clearly enough in the dim light to appreciate it's full force. Donavon had calmed down in the hours that had passed since their initial meeting, Sherlock noticed with slight distaste. Now she was acting like her usual, insufferable self. He was trying to think, for goodness sake.

"Are you going to to tell me why you're holding me hostage?"

He supressed the urge to let out a long, melodramatic sigh. He was fond of as melodramatic sighs - and the situation definately deserved one - but somehow he knew it wouldn't help.

"I'm not holding you hostage, Donavon." He told her, his low, barritone voice steady. He sounded bored. "And untill you realise that there's nothing better to do than compose, so if you'll exuse me..."

"I don't believe you."

That was allowed a sigh, Sherlock reasoned; just a little one, short and condescending. When he spoke, the tone was icey. "Donavon. Do you think I would voluntarily spend time in your presence?"

That stopped her a moment, he thought with relish.

She gave a grunt of agreement and he wondered how it felt to have such a slow, wooly little brain. Of all the people to get stuck with... Had Moriarty known, or had he just got lucky?

The detective hadn't realised he had said this out loud until he realised Donavon was practically radiating anger and annoyance.

"Yes Holmes, why not someone else?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay basically i'm gonna start writing the story in the note boxes as well, so there's less chapters, and they're not so annoyingly short. I realise this will mess up the word count, so i'll sort them out my computor when I get the chance. Sorry if this bothers you

Donavon narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

Sherlock sighed. He couldn't help it. With an expression of concerntration, he considered her for a moment, before breaking out into famous monologue.

"You're not one of those selfless people. As soon as the countdown started, you sprinted fo the door, don't try and deny it. But you didn't quite make it there. I highly doubt you turned back to help someone... you tripped, correct?"

Donavon was silent for a moment. Then nodded. And the detective couldn't help but feel secretly satisfied.

Sally, although a little miffed at the 'not one of those selfless people' comment, had to admit that the freak was right. The only question that remained was why he was here. If Holmes wasn't on Moriaty's side, and really was being held captive too, why on earth hadn't he escaped when he had the chance. Although she felt compelled to ask, Sally didn't get the chance. The door had creaked open again, just a slit, to allow a small beam of light.

"Oh, I do love creaky doors," Holmes called out loudly, and rather stupidly, Sally thought. Though he was well known for being an obnoxious idiot when it came to everything over than solving hideously twisted crimes, so this wasn't entirely supprising. "It makes everything so much more... dramatic. Don't you agree?"

There was a short silence.

"Come on, Sherly." Moriarty whispered, in stark contrast to the freak's shout and somehow managing to sound happy and threatening at the same time. "Come out. I want to speak to you."

The tall, skinny man got up and stretched. Sally couldn't help but glare. She'd give anything to be able to stand up, or even move her arms, for that matter. As though sensing this he gave her a quick glance.

"Get some sleep." Was his parting

comment, and she looked way.

They were gone a long time. Cramp was burning in her arms and legs, everything ached from being in the same position for so long, and Sally tried her best to distract her mind, but it was hard. She wondered if anyone was coming to find them. She wondered if they were worried, if Anderson was worried about her. She thought about how nice their reunion would be (she thought about that one for a while). She wondered why her and Holmes were here, and how on earth Moriarty's men had managed to capture Sherlock but not John. Why John hadn't followed along of his own free will, infact, the pair where so inseparable. Finally, she fell asleep, thinking about how much glaring she'd done in the last couple of days.

The consulting detective had known, when Moriary had called him, that he was going to be gone for a while. It seemed routine, each time they met they had a verbal sparring match, of sorts, and that was obviously scheduled for now.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock returned to the room with a tired mind, feeling as though their conversation had only made him feel exactly 3.5 times more confused. Confusion was not an emotion Sherlock Holmes was particularly accustomed to, and he planned to disperse of it quickly. He needed to think things over, he knew he could work it out if he could just think. But he hadn't had time to do much of that with Donovan babbing away. She was worse that Anderson, if that was even possible. Perhaps that was what attracted them to each other. The affair really wasn't hard to deduce.

Donovan was sleeping, as he had suggested. Time was becoming more difficult to gage the more it passed by, although he was fairly certain it was somewhere in the range of 3 to 4 O'clock in the morning. However, not being aware of the exact minute he found to be uncomfortable.

Donovan didn't exactly look comfortable, either. Being in that position so long was probably hurting her. Though this didn't exactly bother him, and in many ways she was less of a nuisance when tied up, he supposed in these situations it was important to be civil. It was what John would do. In his hand, Sherlock held a long, very skinny blade, with one very sharp edge. Here came a dilema: did he wake her, or let her carry on sleeping while he broke the binds on her wrists and ankles?

After no more than a moments consideration he decided that leaving her unconscious was probably best. It was likely she would scream, or struggle, if Donovan saw him coming at her with a knife, and he couldn't be bothered with that right now. Moving could mean that there was a chance he could accidently cut her, if she moved too suddenly, and he didn't fancy ripping his shirt (a current favourite) into makeshift bandages.

The lock on the handcuffs was easy to pick with the slim blade, and the rope bindings were quick enough to slice through. They had chaffed slightly, but there was no proper damage. She stretched out he limbs in her sleep, and he rolled his eyes before going to sit in the corner of the room again, trying to block out her presence. Now, it was time to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS NOTE  
> I know this sounds awful but I don't really know where i'm going with this story... it was just a relationship I wanted to explore, but I honestly don't have a clue what i'm doing. If there's anyone actually reading and enjoying this, which I really hope, because I am trying, please help? Is there anything you want to to see? If you think I should give up on this, do just say, i'm kinda stuck, like completely stuck. Okay. So anyone that's reading this, please leave a review, give an idea, tell me it's boring or crap or whatever. I just dunno what to do with this fic.


End file.
